


In Chains

by CaptainSlow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24474382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: "You once mentioned in some interview that we don't have sex," Paul says softly, almost contemplatively."Well, we've never had… so far," Richard replies, just as quietly, his heart suddenly feeling way too tight in his chest and dangerously close to his mouth.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Comments: 30
Kudos: 85





	In Chains

_You've got me dying for you  
It's you that I'm living through  
You've got me praying to you  
Saying to you anything you want me to_

_I'm in chains_ _.*©_

Just like many times before, on more occasions than Richard cares to count, they end up lounging on a couch together, side by side, with a beer in hand and with their shoulders and legs almost touching, chatting the evening away. Now, after nigh on thirty years of tumulus relationship they've survived through, Richard finds himself – finally, _miraculously_ – enjoying Paul's company as they have at long last become what they were supposed to be right from the very beginning but for some reason flopped it miserably – two sides of the same coin, the ying and yang, two creative minds complementing each other perfectly. Granted, they still have arguments on a regular basis, but they haven't had a meltdown of the Mutter-times proportions ever since the tour which went by the same name, and Richard couldn't be happier about it. If he had a choice, he'd prefer to get those memories wiped out of his head altogether as they're simultaneously embarrassing, painful and annoying. But then again, maybe it's thanks to possessing those recollections that Paul and he have a chance to be doing what they're doing now – engaging in a civilised conversation, just the two of them without any safety crew to drag them apart in case they disagreed on something, sharing one bottle of beer and with Paul occasionally stealing a drag from Richard's cigarette.

It's still hard to comprehend, both the home truths about how majestically they fucked up back in the beginning of the 00s and just how inexplicably fine it is to be with Paul right now. Having literally run for his life from Berlin to New York, all for the sake of being as far from Paul as he could have possibly got – to the States, of all places, just to have the bloody Atlantic ocean fill the void between the two of them, running away from their unceasing disagreements in everything they did, running from Paul's attitude, from being constantly criticised and told that he wasn't worth a damn, still, here he is, fifteen years later, laughing his ass off in the company of the very person he was once hell bent on avoiding.

That said, it wasn't only Paul's fault, of course. It never is one party's fault in things like this, is it? He used to be just as much of an insufferable bastard and a pain in the ass as Paul himself, so maybe it's not all that surprising that they have ended up like this, after all. If they can be equally frustrating and unbearable, then maybe they could also be partners in crime in whatever they did if they were willing to give understanding each other a try. Which they did for the sake of Rammstein and themselves, both of them, and it wasn't an easy ride at all, hell, it was another nightmare Richard often wanted to wake up from screaming bloody murder, but now, for all that, he is immensely grateful that they did find it in themselves to throttle their egos and start talking it through in an attempt to find a compromise. 

And compromise they did find, and what feels like quite a lot more than just that along the way.

As Richard leans back against the headrest of the sofa, head tilted slightly whilst listening to Paul's animated chattering, sitting so close to him he can feel the body heat against his shoulder, side and hip, he ponders on just how ridiculously unpredictable life is. Here Paul is, someone Richard hated with passion at certain times – at least he used to believe he did – in the very heart of Richard's home – and that's not even in New York, that's Berlin all over again because Richard was dragged back here almost against his will as if by some unseen force; here Paul is, in Richard's most sacred place, in his own studio, the only place Richard is allowed to rule single-mindedly; here he is, actually helping Richard out with his own solo project, something he shouldn't have any business doing yet he is because Richard has actually asked him himself; here he is, a camera in hand, snapping shots for Richard's future release; and look, not a single damn complaint or objection has been voiced by Paul. On the contrary, he's being amiable and helpful and astoundingly easy to work with. Richard does understand that it's most likely because this is solely his, Richard's, project, Paul here only being a willing assistant rather than a participant, and that were it Rammstein, it'd be drastically different from this relaxed and laid-back atmosphere, but isn't even that much already almost surreal; him and Paul, in one studio, having nothing to clobber each other for? He claims he came back to Berlin for his kid's sake, and it isn't strictly a lie, but it isn't the complete truth either – he came back for Paul, too.

He used to fight it to the best of his abilities, this cursed – or _blessed_ , depending on the point of view – chemistry they've had from day one as he first suspected and then grew certain, even if being reluctant to admit it even to himself for years on end, that there was way more to this chemistry than first met the eye. He loathed it then, this attachment they had, and Paul's insufferable attitude didn't do much in terms of helping him to get over it. The complicated mixture of feelings he had for Paul, varying from the desire to impress and get his approval to denial and hatred to resentment and hurt and subsequently to purely physical longing, was overwhelming and confusing, and he did all he could think of to smother and get away from it, trying to drown it in alcohol, subdue it with drugs, fight it by fighting Paul in everything he could, trying to hurt him, too, eventually ending up hurting himself most of all.

It's been a long and arduous journey to the place where he is now, to the world where being in one room with Paul doesn't seem to be excruciating anymore but quite the opposite, but he's grateful he was given a chance to make it in the first place because what they share now when he thinks he has learnt to accept things the way they are, accept himself in the first place, is something truly precious. Over time, he started to find more and more things he genuinely _loved_ about Paul, things he had liked when they were only introduced to each other back in the country which now only exists in their memories and history books, and things that had been neglected by him over the years that had followed, lost in the toxic relationship they had ended up in. Paul's professionalism and determination were what initially attracted Richard when they first knew each other. His creative mind was and still is one of the engines that drives the entire Rammstein machine, and Richard appreciates it greatly, too. Paul's sense of humour has always been priceless; his ability to make Richard howl with laughter in no time flat is something he genuinely treasures, even though at certain moments he wished he could just pluck Paul's wicked tongue out of his sarcastic mouth.

Yet, just like him, Paul has changed, too, becoming kinder, less brusque and more willing to listen, and learning to deal with some things he didn't accept but which, he knew, had the right to be no matter what he thought of them. And, somehow, their joint efforts seem to have been rewarded – they have _this_ , and Richard can't stop marvelling at how profoundly comfortable he now feels in Paul's company, and it's only getting better as time passes, with them getting older, perhaps mellower, and, hopefully, wiser, too.

As Paul gets up from the coach to deliver the empty beer bottle onto the desk, Richard lets his gaze trail after him, something he's been allowing himself to indulge in way more frequently as of late. He does understand what exactly made him fight against it all those years before yet he still wonders why he couldn't see the futility of that struggle. The way he looks at Paul now must be rather unambiguous, eyes hungrily catching and devouring his every single move, the way his new slick earrings gleam in the soft lights illuminating the room, the way veins stand out on his tanned forearms and hands and how light reflects in the heavy silver bracelet hanging loosely around his wrist, the way his taut little ass shifts underneath the layer of clothing. Richard fought against it for many reasons, thinking it was unnatural, thinking Paul was the wrong fucking person to look at like this even if this was natural, thinking that, even if, perhaps, Paul might not be the wrong person, there still was no chance for them, what with Rammstein and their families and their lifestyles. Yet, this passed, too, leaving him staring at Paul openly enough most of the time because he thinks he can see the reflection of the same emotion in Paul's eyes. He doesn't know if they'll ever get up to anything but sharing those glances or occasional fleeting touches, nor is he certain that if they do, it'll make their intrinsically complicated relationship any simpler. It's all innocent enough for a side observer, but there's no point in trying to ignore the fact that they both know what kind of game they've been playing at around each other lately. They might simply go on playing it, enjoying a particular piquant note it brings into their friendship, or maybe, just maybe, one day they'll have enough courage to take it all a step further.

What brings Richard out of the realm of his contemplating Paul's ass along with possible future prospects for the said ass in his life is that the man himself trips over his own boots scattered on the floor, loses his balance but manages to catch it a split second later and avoid a nasty fall headfirst into the armrest of the couch. He swears elaborately, giggles and then kicks the offensive item to the far corner of the room, and Richard simply can't help laughing with him because the idiot, albeit adorable, is being ridiculous.

"Mister Gracefulness incarnate, just look at you," he huffs shaking his head.

"Aw, fuck off," Paul chuckles amiably enough as he plops back onto the couch next to Richard.

"I'd still appreciate it if you managed not do yourself in while you're at my home," Richard smiles, his arm all by its own will ending up resting on Paul's shoulders. It's so natural for him he doesn't even acknowledge he's doing it, not quite hugging Paul but tittering on the very brink of doing so. "Explaining to cops why I have a body of a Rammstein guitarist in my basement isn't my idea of a nice evening. Given our history, they'd never believe me I had nothing to do with it."

"God, you really do sound like we've been married for years." Paul shakes his head and lets the back of it rest on Richard's forearm.

"Loving and affectionate, huh?" Richard grins at him, patting his shoulder gently enough to actually call it _petting_ rather than _patting_.

"Nah, just grumpy and boring," Paul makes a face at him, and for the brief moment that their eyes lock, at such a short distance, Richard feels as if electrical currents run through the air between them.

Paul stares back at him for a while and then is the first to drops his eyes, Richard having no idea whether it's because he's uncomfortable or something else entirely. He remains where he is, though, not moving away an inch. And then, before Richard has time to regret anything he's blurted out, Paul actually goes on.

"You once mentioned in some interview that we don't have sex," he says softly, almost contemplatively.

Richard can barely hear him, both because of the hushed quality of his voice and because there's a sudden rush of blood in his own ears caused by what he's just heard.

"Well, we've never had… _so far_ ," he replies, just as quietly, his heart suddenly feeling way too tight in his chest and dangerously close to his mouth.

Paul gives him another brief glance, teeth sunk into his lower lip as if he was considering something hard, those grey eyes peering at Richard's with sudden intensity which makes him feel hot and flushed. Because, by God and all the saints in Heaven and demons in Hell, the man does look absolutely tantalising. Richard feels a light stir in his groin even though they haven't really done – hell, they haven't even said much of – anything yet.

"Wanna try remedy that?" Paul asks softly, eyes unambiguously directed not at Richard's face at all but down along his body, making the stir in Richard's groin transform into a throb of anticipation.

When Richard fails to respond, silenced by his heart's mad drumroll reverberating in his throat, Paul's eyes dart up to his once more, and, apparently, Paul does find the answer in them because what Richard feels next is the weight of a hand pressing against the bulge in his jeans. His body responds to it before he has a chance to understand what he's doing – his hips buck up as he rubs his growing erection against the palm of Paul's hand. The little devil grins back at him in that charming way of his before diverting his gaze yet again, and, distractedly, Richard questions his own sanity. It's this same man that used to drive him up the wall, that drove him out of the fucking country, that drove him to the brink of a nervous breakdown, no less, and yet here Richard is, thinking he's charming; here he is, desiring Paul with every single cell of his being; here he is, watching mesmerized as Paul's deft fingers unbutton and then unzip the fly on his jeans, then push the material apart, and sneak inside, his palm first sliding over and then gripping his hard-on with so much possessiveness Richard is unable to contain an ever so soft, almost scared, groan.

He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, unable to withstand the pleasure let alone watch it. Then, the pressure suddenly disappears and is substituted by a fleeting brush of warm fingers over his lower abdomen, the waistband of his pants being pulled down, which is followed by the relief from his cock finally being released. Richard bites his lip, letting his teeth sink as deeply as possible, hoping the pain will manage to wake him up in case he's dreaming it all. Still, the sting remains and is compromised by another surge of pleasure caused by the touch of that warm, confident and simultaneously incredibly gentle hand on his shaft.

"Oh god…" he murmurs breathlessly, thrusting minutely into ring formed by Paul's fingers.

They're unmistakably male – stronger and rougher than any woman's, the skin on the pads of his fingers more coarse, toughened by the years of playing the guitar, and so is the touch itself, drastically different from that of any female's that he's ever experienced. It's not rough per se, no, not quite. Paul's hold on him is tender and careful, yet at the same time it's somehow innately _knowing_ , as if he's been doing this his entire life, jerking Richard off to the state of a blissful frenzy. On second thought, he's not entirely wrong here – being a male, Paul must surely know how to handle a cock, his own at the very least, and Richard's not all that different from him in those parts. Another thing which probably shouldn't but takes him aback all the same is how confident and somehow dominating the manner Paul's doing him in is. All in all, the combination of sensations and impressions undoes Richard quickly enough, leaving him gasping and moaning under the clever ministrations of Paul's hand.

With a guttural sigh, Richard slips lower in his seat, spreading his legs wider. His arm, one which still lies draped over Paul's shoulders, tenses without him knowing or noticing it, thus pulling Paul closer, his own fingers digging into Paul's shirt-clad shoulder like a vice. He doesn't want him to move away – cannot allow him to move away now that they've finally crossed that blurred line that has been separating them for years on end. To his genuine relief, delight and excitement, it doesn't seem like Paul's got any intentions to move anywhere.

With eyes closed, the sensation seems even more intense as Richard drops into a world consisting solely of Paul's hand on his dick, the skin of his palm feeling rough against the tender flesh, Paul's hold on him firm and confident, fingers squeezing and swirling in all the right places, reducing Richard to a boneless state of sweet delirium. There's also the sound of Paul's breathing, even and regular. It sounds louder than it should, but Richard doesn't know why that is – solely because of Paul's proximity to him in the empty studio or his state of certain arousal. Richard's inhales and exhales, his definitely being way faster and shallower, accompany Paul's breaths creating a nice little intimate symphony.

It feels good. Hell, it feels wonderful, maybe because Paul knows exactly what he's doing – he's a man, after all, he must know what works best, or maybe because, of all people, this is being done to him by Paul. Richard doesn't know, and he couldn't care less at this particular moment. The only thing he's concerned about is how not to reach the point of no return too soon and how to make this magic last, which is challenging given Paul's zeal and skill. What makes a novel appearance in this perfect little world of his is the sudden weight on his shoulder, and since he feels the hot puffs of air on his skin, he knows Paul must have laid his head on it, his hand never stumbling in its ministrations or breaking its pace. A moment later, he feels the tickling brush of Paul's hair against his neck and jaw, giving him the mental picture of Paul's cheek on his shoulder, eyes closed and a little dreamy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he keeps jerking him off. For some reason, he finds the image both endearing and arousing as it takes the amount of trust between them to a whole new level. Richard has no idea how or why it has this effect on him, but he cannot help a fully formed, throaty moan this time. He doesn't have to open his eyes to see what's going on – he knows what his dick looks like, every vein and crease familiar he barely pays attention to them when he fucks or wanks; he knows what Paul's hands look like – has had the chance to study every vein and scar and fold of skin on them, too, over their thirty-year long acquaintance; he knows how Paul's tendons and muscles strain when he tenses his hands; he knows how his own hips react to his dick being fondled, every jerk of them a familiar act in the script, yet he realises suddenly that he craves to see the whole sensationally new picture of Paul's familiar hands on his own perfectly familiar dick.

So Richard opens his eyes, not without making a certain effort, and stares down at the action playing out in front of him in fascination.

The lights in the studio are dimmed, but after having his eyes shut for quite a while, the illumination seems bright enough for Richard to tell every little detail of what is in front of him. His jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped, his dick sticking out proudly from under the drawn down underwear. Its head is reddish and glistening with pre-cum, the foreskin tugged back and forth by the motions of Paul's clever hand. And then there's the said hand administering those wonderful strokes, hand so familiar Richard would recognise it out of a thousand, but now it's doing something utterly novel and marvellous and beautiful. For some time, he cannot draw his gaze away from it, bones and muscles and tendons moving in a perfect visual symphony which results in so much pleasure for him. He stares at the entire process utterly mesmerised, and then, breathing shakily, turns his head to take a look at Paul.

His head is indeed on his shoulder, lips nuzzling Richard's t-shirt clad upper arm, breath leaving his nostrils in forceful puffs of air. His eyes are shut tightly and there's a look of profound concentration on his face, at least as far as Richard can judge from his vantage point. For some reason, the sight manages to tug at certain strings hidden so deep inside of Richard that it feels almost painful, and the only remedy to deal with it, the only natural painkiller, would be to have Paul even closer than he already is, and keep him there at all costs, never letting go.

So Richard reaches out and lets his hand press to Paul's stubbled cheek, ever so tenderly as his sole desire, a compulsive wish he isn't able to resist at all, is to put as much affection and gratitude into the gesture as possible but even then Richard wouldn't be sure it's capable of expressing all of it. What he's suddenly feeling, for Paul of all people, is both astounding and perfectly expected. There's appreciation, and care, and fondness, and desire, and all of them have the right to be there, really, them knowing each other for thirty odd years and having been through thick and thin together, surviving everything fate threw their way. The surprise he's feeling is also a complex emotion, what with Paul being a man, with Paul being _Paul_ , and with Richard wondering why they never did this before, why on earth it has taken them almost a third of a century to finally end up in this moment.

With his thumb, he strokes Paul's cheek beckoning him to turn or lift his head, needing another point of contact desperately, needing that sarcastic thin-lipped mouth sealed with his own. What Paul does, though, is cease all stroking he's been doing, hand coming to a standstill on Richard's dick, now just holding it, thumb frozen over the slit in obvious, almost palpable, uncertainty.

"Don't stop," Richard pleads, voice barely rising above a murmur. His lips are already on Paul's forehead, supporting his plea with a softest of kisses. "This' so good."

Simultaneously, he presses his palm against Paul's cheek, directing his head towards his lips until his mouth finds what it seeks. Paul meets him with his own lips already half-parted, and as they join in a kiss which is yet chaste enough but certainly won't remain that way for long, Paul's hand resumes the stroking, now just a bit more irregularly. With a sigh of relief that gets mingled with their mutual breath, Richard pushes his hips towards Paul's hand and his tongue into Paul's mouth, and this first touch, wet and slippery and hot, sends fireworks into multiple uncontrollable explosions in front of his closed eyes.

Of all things this kiss could be, Richard's utterly taken aback by how comfortable it feels to be making out with Paul. He knows he's not being completely honest thinking along those lines – there's always been something drawing him and Paul together, that infamous chemistry they've been on about for the past three decades – but after all they've been through, all the disagreements they've faced, all the fights they've had, all the shouting matches they held, it's still astounding just how normal it feels to be kissing this man. That said, though, maybe it's precisely all those hurdles they've encountered and subsequently overcome which make it so special. After all, they did manage to preserve that initial spark that drew them together in the first place, and, miraculously, the past few years have seen them having more mutual understanding than they used to in all the previous years combined.

And they still seem to share it, both the mutual understanding and chemistry, because what Paul's doing to him now, never having touched him like this before, makes Richard whine softly into his mouth from the sheer pleasure he can't contain within himself. There's so much tenderness in Paul's hold on him, movements smooth and knowing, somehow fluid, and there's so much tangible affection in the way he responds to Richard's kisses, lips needy and greedy yet supple and yielding the initiative to Richard willingly enough. Paul's stubble and beard are scratchy against Richard's lips, and, even though he has experience of kissing men, this time it feels absolutely sensational, and Richard suspects it's not because he's kissing a man. It's because he's kissing a friend, a soulmate of many years, all their disagreements be damned, someone who's been with him for the better part of his life, who has become the better part of his life, one who has seen him in joy and sorrow and is still here despite it all. Here, and making him feel so good, too.

Wrapping his arms around Paul's shoulders, Richard pulls him closer, Paul humming something incoherent into his mouth but not protesting. The irregularity of his breathing and the hushed sighs and moans Paul lets out make something warm blossom in Richard's chest – knowing, hearing, feeling that it makes him feel good, too, is an elevating thing. Then Richard returns one of his hands onto Paul's cheek, holding him securely against his mouth, warmth spreading through his whole body, from his mouth to his heart to his throbbing and leaking dick in the firm hold of Paul's clever hand. As Richard's nearing his release, Paul once again stops his ministrations, tearing a pitiful groan of frustration out of his mouth. Then he moves back, sending a jolt of panic through Richard's very core.

"Paul," he whispers in agitation, hand pulling Paul back to his face, the other clamped on his shoulder as if it could hold the man in place in case he wanted to go. Richard knows that it's nonsense, that if Paul, for some reason, has come back to his senses and found this unacceptable, he's got no chance of persuading him otherwise. Yet he still tries, the stubborn fucker that he is, becoming especially stubborn when it comes to Paul. "Don't--"

"Shhh," the man in question shushes him, complementing it with a soft press of his lips on Richard's. His hands end up on Richard's cheeks, too, cupping his face impossibly gently. "Trust me, it's okay," he repeats right into Richard's mouth, soothingly, and then moves back again.

"Don't go now," Richard finally manages to string a coherent phrase together, locking his eyes with Paul's, his own hand starting to stroke Paul's upper arm, coaxing him to remain where he is and keep on doing what he has been doing. "Not now."

"I'm here," Paul assures him, supporting it with another brief press of his wet lips to Richard's, and then does something which takes Richard's breath completely away.

As it turns out a second later, he was indeed a fool to get concerned that Paul had it in mind to suddenly make a run for it. The next thing he knows is that, in one oddly graceful movement, Paul throws his leg over his thighs, ending up straddling his lap, his firm little ass on Richard's knees, his legs squeezing Richard's as if he were a cowboy riding a stallion.

The thought is very ill-timed because it nearly sends Richard over the edge, his cock giving him a warning throb of anticipation.

"Oh fuck," Richard mutters incoherently, more moans the words rather than actually articulates them, and relocates his hands to Paul's buttocks, squeezing them unceremoniously and pulling the man closer until he feels the rough press of the fabric of his jeans, obvious bulge in them, too, against his own stripped and leaking cock. This time, it's Paul's turn to let out a surprised gasp – and Richard's immensely glad for it because it's about time that little tease tried walking in Richard's shoes. With the sense of accomplishment, Richard grins victoriously into Paul's mouth before greedily claiming it for his own. A moment later, Paul's hand returns to where Richard wants it the most and resumes the stroking, reducing Richard to a state of unintelligible pleas and muffled gasps in almost no time at all.

All the while, up until the moment Richard comes thrusting into Paul's hot hand, their lips remain sealed together and break apart only when Richard simply cannot withstand the pleasure anymore and with a shuddering curse buries his face in the crook of Paul's neck, the scents of sex, musky and warm, sweat, Paul's perfume and aftershave and the conditioner that must have been used for his shirt mixing into one irresistible, dizzying mixture, making his head spin even more so as he's riding through the final contractions of his orgasm. Yet this mixture doesn't feel strange or alien – that's the very essence of Paul, something which he's come to learn ever so well over the years, and the new note added to it, that of passion and sex, only makes it all feel even more right, the way it should be. The revelation is so profound and acute that it leaves Richard clinging to Paul for dear life, fingers clawing at his shoulders for support, intimacy, affection and god knows what else.

Now that he's had his release, it seems that this suffocating mixture of feelings should subside and finally let him breathe, but that's not what happens. With Paul's arms around him, and Paul's weight on his lap, and Paul's body pressed against his own, Richard's semen-smeared, softening cock trapped between them, it's hard to come to his senses as it is, but when he feels one of Paul's hands relocating up to ruffle and then stroke his hair, and then a subsequent press of his lips against his temple, Paul's beard a prickly tickling touch on his skin, Richard nearly loses it completely, not being able to help a shudder from the sheer sensational pleasure of it all. It does require an effort to lift his head off Paul's shoulder and his mouth off the tempting warmth of his skin, but it's worth the trouble – when he takes Paul's face into both of is hands, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, and joins their mouths together, he's rewarded with another delightful burst of fuzziness in his stomach. His lips flutter over Paul's, tiny delicate pecks like caresses of a butterfly's wings, before he lets the kiss deepen, holding Paul securely where he is, determined to convey by means of the body language his gratitude and just what exactly Paul's proximity evokes in him.

From Paul's cheeks, his hands slip down to the sides of his neck and then to the collar of his shirt, struggling with the defying buttons but managing to defeat them in the end. One after the other, they get undone, exposing Paul's chest and stomach to his touch. Richard follows the trail of the undone buttons, fingertips lingering over the spot beneath which Paul's heart is beating wildly, his whole ribcage reverberating with its regular throbs, and then lets them take a brief detour to his nipples. Now that he finally has an opportunity to touch and rub and squeeze them, he realises with surprise just how badly he's wanted to do just that for god only knows how long. Somewhere at the back of his mind, there's his voice of reason asking him just how long he's been in denial over what exactly he wanted to do to Paul. Surely, it must have been longer than he could have possibly fathomed, what with another burst of fluttering in his stomach the action is causing.

"You're perfect," he hears himself mutter deliriously, lips lavishing erratic kisses on the smooth warm skin before them. "Absolutely fucking gorgeous."

In response, there's breathless laughter vibrating through Paul's chest and right into Richard's lips, and then a breathily huffed, "Thought I'd never see the day…"

When he's done with the buttons, he relocates his mouth to Paul's jaw and then the side of his neck and finally ends up sucking on the tender skin where Paul's collarbones meet, enticing a deep moan from the latter in the process. The reaction only spurs him forth, and Richard actually nips at the warm skin while his fingers negotiate the zip and button on Paul's jeans. His considerable hard-on trapped inside doesn't make the task any easier, both technically as it's tricky to deal with the stretched fabric, and emotionally as the realisation that his desire for Paul is mutual and that he is the reason of this state of excitement below his waist is absolutely unravelling.

"Paul…" he mouths against Paul's wet lips, and when they part, Paul lets out such a shaky breath, subsequently sucking the air back in as if he was suffocating, that Richard returns a soothing hand back onto his cheek. "You're ravishing," he exhales, taken aback by the unexpected string of compliments but actually enjoying how they feel on his lips. After all, Paul is every single one of them, with those dusky eyes of his and wet lips smothered by kisses.

The man in question doesn't say anything at all, seemingly lost for words for once in a lifetime – _at long last_ – only gasping into Richard's mouth, and when the latter makes a move to urge Paul to reposition himself back on the sofa, he does so willingly enough, unbuttoned shirt and unzipped fly and straining dick partly out of his underwear. Richard spares him a glance – he wants more than that, he wants to devour that tempting part especially, but before that he needs to rid Paul of his damn clothes. Much less gracefully now, Paul ends up sitting on the sofa again and, with one final brief kiss, Richard slips down onto the floor, settling down between Paul's legs. Paul's own hand slides all the way down from his neck to his shoulder and along his arm until in clamps on Richard's fingers as he finally positions himself between Paul's thighs. He is still silent, but his eyes speak louder and more articulately than words could – they're huge, pupils dilated in this semi-darkness around them, his gaze clouded by unmistakable desire.

Yet, when Richard starts to pull down Paul's jeans and then the waistband of his underpants, letting Paul's swollen flesh spring free, there's a hushed murmur reaching Richard's ears, a barely distinguishable, _'Richard'_ breathed out in what sounds like awe.

When he raises his eyes to lock them with Paul's, the latter's looking at him in utter astonishment, as if not believing what he's seeing. Briefly, Richard wonders just what it all looks like to Paul, to behold him in this position, on the floor in between his legs, with his cock inches away from Richard's mouth. Decades ago, this would have felt humiliating for hm and maliciously triumphant for Paul, but times have changed, and here they are, Richard willingly on his knees in front of the man who used to be his sworn enemy. Now, he genuinely hopes it's a good sight, just as good as Paul is to him, partly stripped of his clothing, slender and handsome as hell in this unsteady light, with eyes dark and hungry and begging for more, just like his cock does, moisture glistening on its tip.

"I want this," Richard murmurs back to Paul in kind, and then nods, more to himself this time, realising that this couldn't be truer.

He does indeed want this, hell, he _craves_ this, has been yearning for this for god knows how many years on end now, perhaps even before their relationship somehow levelled off to become something civil in the middle of the 00s, all those years of accumulated unreleased and unsatisfied desire making his breath hitch and his palms get damp and saliva pool in his mouth in anticipation of what's finally to come.

He's been with other men before, a few times in his life – would have been a waste of an opportunity not to try that kind of thing given his fame and the fact that there has never been a lack of willing partners. Those, however, were strangers; handsome and skilful, yet evoking no emotional attachment in Richard whatsoever, whereas _this_ is so strikingly different. There's a deeper and stronger bond between him and Paul, and it makes Richard think of Paul's pleasure in the first place. With a certain surprise, he realises he genuinely wants to make him feel good, not only because of the gratitude for what Paul did to him a while back, but also because he loves to see Paul pleased and happy and smiling. On the heels of this realisation follows another one – that there's more love involved between the two of them. Now, kneeling between Paul's knees, hands on his slim thighs and his cock swaying gently because of Paul's deepened breathing right in front his very face, he somehow feels inexplicably close to his fellow guitarist, the chemistry feeding the kindling spark between them right from the start finally turning into a fire, not a blazing inferno of stupefying lust but into a steady flame, burning strongly, warming and giving life rather than scorching it.

Before he moves forward, his takes one of Paul's hands in his, brings it to his mouth and leaves a lingering kiss on his knuckles, the action provoked by tenderness rather than desire. As he lets it go, Paul's hand ends up against his cheek, fingertips brushing against his skin and then sliding to the nape of his neck, urging Richard to go on. It entices a smile out of him, a genuine one, and as he leans in to let his lips encircle the dripping head of Paul's dick, Richard closes his eyes in anticipation. He's in no hurry – he's had his release so it's easier to do everything at a leisurely pace, savouring every moment, every sensation and every shade of taste.

The half-drawn foreskin feels velvety against his lips, and as he pushes it gently back, the head of Paul's cock is smooth and warm, slippery as it slides easily inside his mouth. The bitterish taste of his pre-cum envelops his tongue, the fluid dribbling onto it pooling there, being spread all the way down to his throat as Richard takes him further in. It shouldn't come as a surprise – it's not exactly the first time he's held a dick in his mouth – but it still blows his mind just how controversially hard and soft it feels, the silken skin and throbbing veins compromised by the rock-hard shaft beneath, all of it sliding smoothly back and forth as he moves the tight ring of his lips up and down Paul's cock. There are smells, too, musk and sweat the unique scent of Paul's skin, and the tickling brush of the fluff of hair at the base of his cock against Richard's nose, Paul's balls feeling heavy in his palm. He's so lost in the sensation of giving pleasure rather than receiving it he barely remembers who or where he is. With Paul's cock in his mouth, the heat and his heartbeat right on his lips and tongue, it's hard to distinguish where he ends and Paul begins, as if their bodies have merged and become one at last, and the pleasure Paul's feeling is his pleasure now, too, Paul's body a part of his own, Paul's heartbeat synchronised with his, Paul's soul joining with his own to become one, just like they've been from day one, really, just like they have always been supposed to be, and thirty something years later, everything's finally falling into place.

Somewhere in the universe outside Richard's own head where Paul and he are one, he hears his partner gasp and moan, voice strained and trembling, and feels increasingly forceful thrusts of Paul's hips which make his dick ram deep down his throat, making it clench around the shaft and Richard nearly choke so much so he has to put two steady hands onto Paul's hips to prevent him from getting too zealous. With his eyes squeezed tight, his own pants dangling low on his hips and his cock pulled outside, his semen drying on it to turn into stiff crust, with sweat standing out on his forehead and temples and saliva dribbling out of his mouth freely, with Paul's dick thrust far down his throat, he must be a sight, yet it's not an unpleasant image somehow. He's doing what he's doing almost reverently, as if Paul was some precious treasure granted to him by higher powers, and he's immensely grateful for it. Given the fact of their turbulent relationship over the years, what they're sharing now indeed seems to be a gift from the heavens above, so Richard does his best to suck and work his tongue so that it would drive Paul into a delirious blissful frenzy.

When Paul's seed jets and spurts deep into his throat, Richard draws back, coughing, eyes watering both from oxygen deprivation and having Paul's cum forced down his mouth. Once he's got his breathing back, though, he doesn't hesitate to return his lips back on Paul's dick. He doesn't even think of it, never mind that he's never ever held anyone's seed in his mouth. With Paul, though, it doesn't cause any hesitation whatsoever as to what to do. Sucking him right back in, he helps himself with a hand on Paul's shaft, smearing the previous load of his semen over his own saliva thus making it slicker and easing the friction. A couple more shots follow, and this time Richard is prepared. He holds it all in his mouth for a while, not knowing why on earth he's doing it, whether provoked by mere curiosity or the compulsive desire to have Paul and whatever is his for himself, thereby claiming him somehow.

When it's over and Paul's still, spent beneath him, Richard finally lets his softening flesh slip out of his mouth, his own face covered in sweat, spunk, snot and saliva, but he's happier nonetheless that he's been in years. With the back of his hand and a part of his sleeve, Richard wipes all the mess off his face and then lets his cheek rest wearily on Paul's thigh, his nose so close to his balls he has to cross his eyes to be able to distinguish every single strand of hair and fold of skin there. As if obeying some higher force, unable to resist his desires, he moves closer and presses a kiss to the slick side of Paul's shaft, near the very base of it, as casually as if he was kissing his cheek. It doesn't appear to be enough for him, though, nothing seems to be enough tonight, not as far as Paul is concerned, so Richard gathers the remains of his strength together and pulls himself up a bit, allowing his arms to wrap around Paul's middle and ending up with his cheek on Paul's lower abdomen, nose nuzzling that thin trail of fine hairs running down from his navel.

He has no idea as to how long he remains in this strange and hardly comfortable position, crouching on the floor while hugging Paul around his middle, when, at some point, he feels Paul's fingers brushing through his hair. Their progress is somewhat hindered by the copious amount of gel in it, but that doesn't seem to deter Paul from it. Ever so gently, he starts to untangle the glued strands, fingertips occasionally massaging Richard's scalp while he's at it. Unable to contain a moan, Richard hugs Paul even tighter around his waist, pressing his nose to Paul's stomach, letting that trail of hair tickle its very tip. He wonders whether Paul's looking at him as he's doing it and, if he is, what his expression is like. Yet, Richard doesn't quite dare give him a glance. It's not because he doesn't want to; hell, he'd gladly spend the entire night doing just that – gazing at Paul – but rather because he has a strong premonition that if he allows his eyes to lock with Paul's, he'll be as well as done for, falling for him so hard he's not sure he'll be capable of dealing with the impact later. So he remains the way he is, eyes squeezed shut, letting Paul fondle his hair and leaving an occasional kiss on his gently rising and falling stomach.

Their eyes do finally meet when, a while later, he feels Paul's hands relocate to his shoulders and, for the lack of a proper hold, making a clumsy attempt at dragging him up from the floor. This is when Richard raises his head to look at his partner, and what happens then happens so fast it makes his head spin. It's indeed like falling, but not falling down, though, it's like he's falling right into Paul's eyes, and through them, to his very soul, love and affection and tenderness enveloping him from every side, resonating with his own feelings and thus amplifying the intensity of them. There's something fuzzy in his chest and stomach and something stinging in his eyes as Richard all but slithers up along Paul's body ending up flush against him, half lying on him while partly still crouching in the floor. Before he can do anything else, Paul's lips press to his with such force it's closer to an assault than a kiss. There are hands in his hair, fingers gripping the strands he's just been so tenderly untangling, not allowing Richard to move back an inch, as if he was craving the taste of himself on Richards tongue, and there might well be a lot to taste, there's still scent of Paul lingering at the back of his throat, and Richard opens his mouth willingly to allow Paul's tongue to slip inside. When he's not met with any resistance whatsoever, Paul allows his hands to slide down and across Richards back enclosing him into his embrace so strong and tight Richard can barely breathe. Richard's eyes are squeezed shut again but it doesn't matter anymore – he's seen all he needed to see, enough to let him know that both of them are too far gone to fight it, even if they wished to do so, which it seems they aren't.

In the end, they manage to crawl onto the couch properly, still half undressed and entangled into each other so tightly as if they really were trying to become one being. The couch is not wide enough for two grown-up men, but they manage as Paul ends up lying almost on top of Richard. The intensity of his release and his eagerness to please Paul earlier have left him exhausted, but Richard collects the remains of his strength together in order to pull his tee off and discard it somewhere onto the floor beside the couch. Now, with his torso naked, there's that sought for skin-on-skin sensation, Paul's chest pressed to his own, the thin sheen of sweat between their bodies serving as some kind of glue keeping them close together as one. They don't utter a single word for a very long time, no need for verbal communication yet as their bodies are capable of expressing everything that needs to be conveyed easily enough by means of presses of lips and brushes of hands and beating of hearts.

After a while, though, when the blazing afterglow of his orgasm has almost completely subsided, it's substituted by the voice of reason talking ceaselessly inside his head, showering him with so many questions, to most of which he has no answer whatsoever, that it's nearly giving him a headache. Why are they doing it? Why now, of all times, after knowing each other for three decades, why not before? Why Paul? And why on earth does it feel so perfect? Had he known it would be like this earlier, he'd have made a move years ago. And what are they going to do? Now? Tomorrow, when the morning comes? In the future? Is he really falling in love with Paul? Or has he been in love with him all this time?

There are way too many of them, and he wouldn't be able to answer most on his own, he needs Paul's assistance here. So he decides to start with the one most relevant in the current circumstances.

"Tell me you're planning on staying the night here?" he murmurs against the top of Paul's head at last.

He's so emotionally spent that even speaking suddenly feels like a challenge, but it's a good sort of spent nonetheless. Idly, Richard allows his index finger to thoughtfully draw circles over the tattoo on Paul's shoulder. He's seen it a million times, it seems, but never before as close as this, so close that he can distinguish where the ink has faded somewhat. Somehow, the little detail makes Paul so much more real, right there, peaceful and relaxed in his arms.

"Do I look like I'm planning on going anywhere?" his insufferably sarcastic fellow guitarist huffs, squeezing his arms around Richard for good measure.

"You look like you're planning to strangle the life outta me, and for once, I don't mind it one bit," Richard smiles, and it feels both right and alien on his lips.

Right because it's evoked by the feeling of peace that's settled over him despite the swarm of questions in his head; alien because it's been ages since he felt anything like this with anyone. Margaux was perhaps the only one who brought him relatively close to this sense of inner contentment, but with Paul it's really a whole new dimension.

"Let's move to bed then, how 'bout that?" he offers, relieved. "This couch's killing my back."

Richard can literally feel Paul's smile against his chest in the prickly touch of his beard as Paul's lips move.

"Romantic much, eh?" he mumbles good-naturedly.

"You want romance?" Richard asks, a tad amused.

"I want it all," Paul replies softly, so softly Richard can barely tell the words, but it perhaps answers one of the most important questions of all, and it makes his heart swell in his chest and that fluttery fuzzy feeling reappear in his stomach yet again. "All we've missed over the years," Paul adds in a whisper, suddenly leaving Richard completely speechless for a while.

All he can do is hug him a little bit tighter, with every passing moment only growing more certain that what has just taken place here has been neither an accident nor a little friendly fuck.

"For how long?" Richard asks quietly, for the moment totally forgetting about his aching back.

He's not sure it's a suitable question to voice now but he's curious and, not quite understanding all of this completely, he hopes Paul might shed some light on when exactly they fell in love. Because that's what they are and, most likely, have been for a while.

"For how long what? Have I wanted you?" For some reason, Paul huffs again, but this time the sound comes out as surprisingly bitter. Then he sighs and goes on, somewhat hopelessly, "Pretty much ever since the moment I saw you for the first time, I reckon."

To Richard, the confession feels like a slap in the face, simultaneously staggering and sobering and hurting. He feels his eyes shoot wide open as he stares up at the studio ceiling utterly stupefied. Couldn't have been like that, could it?

"Maybe if I'd understood it then, though, things might have turned out differently. But I didn't. And if you mean for how long I have known that… this…" Paul trails off, so unlike his usual suave self. His voice also sounds oddly pained, and for the first time ever Richard actually wonders if their years-long implacable conflicts and the desire which remained unquenched have been tormenting Paul as much as they have been tormenting him, in more ways than one. "For a few years now, for certain," Paul goes on, unaware of Richard's own revelations. "Funnily enough, I didn't realise it quite by myself but was rather helped to."

Now it is beginning to seem that surprises will never cease tonight.

"What do you mean?" Richard asks, genuinely perplexed.

Paul remains silent for a while and then shifts in the hold of his arms, lifts his head and gives him a rather uncertain little smile, which also looks awfully fragile.

"You sure you want to talk about it now?"

To Richard's relief, though, he doesn't look or sound confronted, merely apprehensive.

"Is there some horrible secret I shouldn't know?" he asks as cautiously as he can muster, somehow even willing to let it go if Paul admits there is and doesn't feel like sharing it.

Paul smirks, though, and it's astounding how something as little as his small smile can shift the mood so much.

"No, no horror and no secrets," he shakes his head and, with a sigh, returns his cheek back onto Richard's chest, which is also a relief. Richard strokes his shoulders encouragingly. "Schneider was the one who sort of hinted that the root of all our problems might be sexual rather than anything else. And, truth be told, it didn't really come as a surprise to hear him say it."

When Richard is unable to contain an amused huff, Paul lifts his head to give him a curious look.

"What's so funny?"

"Schneider is."

"Did he talk to you about it, too?"

"Not in quite as specific terms but… I believe I can say I got the same idea. What a bloody match-maker, I bet he'd get a sense of accomplishment if he saw us right now, huh?"

At first, Paul just grins at him with that unique grin of his, and then breaks into laughter, dropping his head back onto Richard's chest.

"Seems like he was right, after all," Paul murmurs and suddenly presses a sound kiss to Richard's bare shoulder. "You?"

"I started suspecting in Mutter times, when the shit hit the fan for real," Richard sighs. "Got me so terrified that I had to run not only from you, but from myself as well, and you know how _well_ that worked out."

Paul hums softly by way of agreement.

"Why did you… now, I mean…" Richard trails off, suddenly not feeling particularly articulate either.

There go all those band therapy sessions where they were advised to speak out and properly formulate whatever it was that bothered them, he reflects somewhat sourly. Articulation would certainly be of help right now, but it turns out Paul is, miraculously, able to get the idea.

"Made a move in the direction which has left us here entangled and half-naked on your couch?" his fellow guitarist asks, proving to Richard that at least one of them is still able to string words together, seasoning them with a sprinkle of irony just as he's always been prone to.

"You got it. Couldn't have put it better myself," Richard huffs.

His back craves the more comfortable surface of his own bed but he reckons it'll have to bear with the couch for a while, at least for as long as this streak of marvellous mutual understanding lasts. As far as the two of them are concerned, it seems crucial to try to preserve it for as long as possible.

"Well, I couldn't really resist you being all…" Paul trails off again and has a go at shrugging his shoulders.

"So I did, after all, sound loving and affectionate?" Richard asks, realising his heart is thudding heavily in his chest. It's ridiculous but he can't help the traitorous thing as Paul's answer most likely means a hell of a lot to him. Paul himself should obviously be able to feel the hammering through his ribcage and get the idea.

"No, just like I said, you sounded grumpy," Paul huffs and lifts his head to give Richard a glance. His eyes, however, are radiant as he looks down at him, and so is his smile. "But there was so much affection in your eyes, Richard."

Lost for words again, all Richard can do is stare back at Paul, at every single line of his face, every single wrinkle, so familiar that mere seeing it feels like being home, safe and secure and comforting. It's rather dark in the room, but there's a kind of light in Paul's eyes, radiating from within them, warm and steady, and Richard realises this must be the reflection of what he is feeling, all the love and affection and tenderness, which are suddenly there within him, the amount which he wasn't truly even aware of just a few hours ago.

Still struggling to say something – because he feels Paul deserves to hear it, not only see it in his gaze of a lovestruck idiot – Richard cups Paul's cheek and draws him down to his mouth. This seems like a more efficient way of communication anyway.

Before their lips join, though, there are words falling off the tip of his tongue in a softest of murmurs.

"I love you, Paul," he whispers into his lover's open mouth before his own is closed by a kiss, soft and slow and almost painfully gentle.

When they part, Paul doesn't move away but speaks into the corner of his lips. "And the thought that we nearly destroyed it with our own hands is utterly terrifying," he all but breathes out, making Richard wince, because indeed, especially now in the current circumstances, it is so.

"I don't wanna destroy anything anymore, Paul," he murmurs.

"I know…" Paul sighs. "See, you've said it all and I'm still…" he sighs, the sound coming out quivering and somewhat unnerved, the unusual change of Paul's moods perplexing Richard more than he cares to admit. Then Paul really moves back until he's able to look Richard in the face properly. "It's still hard for me to talk, you know it," he shakes his head, looking a bit hopeless. "Even when it's not about bad things, but about good ones. About you. About how much I want you to be… everything, all of this, to have all of this, fame, recognition, your side-project, Rammstein. I guess I was scared that my love would just seem so insignificant to you in comparison with all other things that you wouldn't even notice it, and I couldn't bear it. It seemed so much easier not to give you any love at all than allow the possibility of it being rejected."

"Paul…" Richard mutters, utterly stunned now, then takes Paul's face in both of his hands, pulling him down until their lips touch once more. "Your love would be the most precious thing I could have. I might not have treasured it before, but it's different now, you should know."

"Then you have it, Richard, all of it, all of me," Paul breathes softly, lips fluttering weightlessly over his mouth and cheeks and chin. "I love you more than it's probably good for me."

At this, Richard cannot help himself – he grins into Paul's mouth, laughing quietly with relief, and love and delight.

"How about a dinner tomorrow night then, mhm? Does it sound sufficiently romantic for you?" he asks hopefully, suddenly fascinated beyond what's perhaps good for him by the prospects of a quiet atmosphere of an evening at home with Paul, and it's weird how those two words, home and Paul, suddenly acquire a much more profound connection. "No one's gonna be here till Monday, I could cook something special for us, and, you know…" He falls silent, not sure how to put it in the plain straightforward way and say _'we could fuck each other senseless'_ , or _'I could kiss the hell out of you for hours on end'_ , or simply _'I want to be with you, closer than we've ever been before'_. 

"Only the dinner, eh?" Paul asks, but the troll is definitely grinning now, obviously teasing Richard as if he's read his very thoughts. "What else is there in your concept of romance?"

"Maybe you should tell me what's in yours, mhm?" Richard asks instead, and that's another question which has just slipped out of his mouth all by itself, way more easily than Richard could have imagined it would be to ask it. "So that I could do everything I can to convince you I'm in love with you beyond reason. And that I want you in all ways it's possible to want someone you love."

With a laugh, Paul presses his forehead to Richard's, their noses touching.

"I want to make love to you," he says, grinning, and that's the grin Richard loves best, Paul's unique grin, brilliant and jubilant.

"That much I can give you," Richard smiles in return. "Just, please, let's get off the fucking couch, huh?"  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As I've already said, I come from a Ramm fandom from an entirely different site, but, for some reason, I have never posted any of my Rammstein works on AO3. So, heeding a friend's advice (Neoclemente, cheers, thanks for dragging me to this place after all those years XD), here I finally am. 
> 
> This is a one shot, occurring perhaps around 2017, sometime before Paul's infamous 'We llllove each other more than ever' and inspired by one of them mentioning that Schneider sort of helped the two of them to learn how to be in one room with each other again. No background needed, no drama, just... well, Paulchard XD
> 
> *The title and the initial quote are from Depeche Mode's 'In Chains'


End file.
